something thats been driving me crazy is the constant worry that i am somehow using harmful stereotypes for the characters i write
like i am unfortunately white tm and me also being autistic and queer does not erase that obviously, im always trying to educate myself as best as i can, yet i feel like im always doing something wrong
its less of a problem when im working with the normal forms of hylia and demise since they are not really human, and though their humanoid disguises technically are still not human they do represent what they might have looked like if they grew up as one; i didnt want to make demises form too dark since i felt like it would perpetuate that stereotype of dark skin = evil which is already not great about ganondorfs character design, but didnt want to make him too light since i felt it would erase that part of his connection to ganondorf altogether and make it all the worse, but then again my demise isnt actually that evil, hes good at heart, so making him too light then would be even worse bc it would imply that light = good thing again
for hylia im even more anxious about it bc i intentionally gave her very dark skin to kinda subvert that light = good thing with zelda (tho in my AU the gods are not good and hylia isnt actually as loyal to them as it may seem bc she knows that.. which i feel complicates things just further; and also light an dark is just a very good contrast aesthetically?) but then i also like to intentionally make characters rather ?gender? but then i worry her being somewhat masculine would also be sth harmful bc i know black women are often treated as inherently less feminine .. which isnt my intention at all (tho my hylia .. doesnt rly have a gender? idk many characters i like to write/design dont have anything specific, like what more do you need than knwoing the right pronouns to call them?? qnq)
her being rather cold and ruthless also feels like im doing something bad somehow
then theres the whole sexualization worry, i dont know if im doing that in a bad way bc honestly i just like .. drawing ...bodies? aesthetically? like yes they are very sexy but also wheres the line, am i somehow overstepping it without knowing?? how can i recognize what is normal 'finding certain things pretty or sexy' and what isnt??
so far i dont remeber anyone pointing anythign out as bad which im taking as a sign that i cant be doing that badly .. hopefully, maybe all this is a very stupid thing to worry about and its obvious to everyone else but i am so god damn afraid of doing something even slightly questionable and being hunted down for it
(probably bc similar happened to me when i was a teen and it was about an absolut non issue, literally, so even the thought of doing something actually bad is mind boggling to me bc that other thing nearly cost me my life and i literally dont know how i survived and i would 100% not if it happened again..)
this is probably a very chronically online thing too but hoenstly i needed to get it out of my head for once
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pairing: astarion x tav
rating: nsfw-ish
notes: non-native speaker behind the wheel; a study on the main character, intimacy, and their relation to power.
summary: when you try to manipulate a vampire spawn into believing he can easily manipulate you, but you forget to assess how it all might backfire.
She tensed against him, nails instinctively digging into his shoulder where her hand had caressed his skin before. He knows. Fuck, he knows. As calm and relaxed as Maleane tried to play it, her body betrayed every plan she'd set up for the night. Use it. Be the damsel, the morsel, the fly trapped in his web. Make him think you're innocent, weak, pathetic. Frantic thoughts darted through her mind like crossbow bolts, one faster than the other, panic almost dulling the ache that every move sent through her body. Mal opened her eyes to peer at his, assessing the situation, trying to look past that perfectly polished facade. A glimmer of something she could not recognize danced across his blood-red irises and it made her heart race faster. No, too pathetic. He would never believe it. He would never trust it. He could never use it. As the pieces on the board started falling into place, Astarion opened his mouth. To mock her? To tease her? To bite?
"Harder." A rushed whisper escaped through her lips as she pulled him in, hand grasping the back of his neck, pushing those sharp teeth towards her delicate throat.
One desperation for another. A leverage. A distraction. Yes, that will distract him. The rapid volley of her thoughts came crashing in waves, trying to squeeze in between every sensation that was consuming her body. The dry sticks digging into her back, the suffocating feeling of being pinned down, his lips at her neck, the discomfort of it all. How did she end up like this?
Before being infected, Maleane rarely thought of this moment, preferring to take advantage of whatever opportunity would eventually come her way. She was well aware of how this world worked, however, witnessed plenty to grasp the essence of what urges most living, breathing creatures possessed. But all of them seemed so distant, in her periphery at best, for Mal had different things to worry about, survival being at the forefront of her mind. Yet, even those who think themselves high above such mortal indulgences can’t lie for too long.
The first time it became apparent was at a tavern. From time to time, Maleane would wander into one village or another, bringing game or furs to trade. It wasn’t the easiest interacting with people, as most feared drow like the devils from hells, a sentiment she could, unfortunately, relate to. But goods were goods and coin was coin, so once the sense of threat had subsided, many were at least accepting of her being around. Some went as far as growing to like her, for Mal was good at molding herself to whatever person she needed to be for the occasion.
She sat at the corner of the room, sipping on the mead that the dwarf lady who owned the place had offered, her pale lilac eyes scanning the evening crowd. Travelers resting after a long journey, a bard belting a song about doomed lovers, four ladies dressed in revealing outfits leaning over the tables, sweet-talking their way into the men’s purses, and some urchins scurrying around between the tables. Maleane found herself gazing at one of the wenches, her ample bosom almost spilling out of the top of the laced dress. The woman’s skin glistened in the hazy lantern light, tiny droplets of sweat strewn across her chest like a dozen tiny gems. Something stirred in Mal’s core, as if a hand was slithering inside her, reaching down and down to where her thighs met. She wanted the woman to be at her table instead, leaning close, whispering what she could only assume were profanities into her ear. The whore would only want me for my coin. Maleane’s gaze returned back to the half-empty mug nestled between her hands, the soft tingling in her belly dissipating as quickly as it first emerged. She didn’t want to buy something she could take, that was beneath her.
One day she decided that she would do it. Instead of passively waiting for the opportunity to run into her, Mal would take the matters into her own hands and be done with it. For as much as she tried to deny it, the wench haunted her sleepless nights, pulling up memories that the drow had never paid much attention to before. A peek between the boards of a shed, where a maid was wedged between two men, all three engaging in carnal pleasures. A conversation she overheard between an innkeeper and a miller over how the former had found a patron bound and gagged in a room after a particularly rowdy night. A shepherd she had once observed burying his head down the pants of another boy in a field not far from her camp.
It wasn’t long before Maleane was in the village again, looking to replace the tools that had worn off from years of use. While waiting for the blacksmith to return from the market, the elf found herself wandering between the haystacks, away from the busy street and into the backyard. There, an orange tabby rolled in the dirt, soaking up the sun with its big cream belly. As Mal watched the animal play, she noticed that there was another spectator. Unlike Maleane, he wasn’t interested in the playful feline, his eyes were fixed on her.
Pretty, for a human. The youth froze in his tracks the moment the drow moved towards him, eyes widening in surprise. He tried to step back and retreat, however, it was too late and soon he found himself trapped between the elf and the wall.
Maleane examined him from head to toe, lingering on the lean yet muscled arms, the hints of hair peeking at the neckline of his shirt, the faintest outline of the curve beneath the linen pants. He wants me. Like those wenches at the inn. Like the maids bathing in the pool. And yet, his eyes are streaked with fear. She shoved the boy against the wall and pressed her lips against his, hand sliding up his chest to grip his shoulder, while the other slithered to undo the laces of his breeches. The human didn’t protest, surrendering to her advances, yet he didn’t respond in turn. Nothing. It was exactly what was happening, what she was feeling. Nothing stirred, nothing awakened, nothing ignited. She left the backyard, the man still frozen, his pants awkwardly sliding down to his ankles.
It was all before the tadpole, before the nautiloid, before running into the pale elf. With the notion of impending doom breathing down her neck, Maleane was thrown into a swirling pit of chaos. It was a time to take advantage of every favorable circumstance, to risk everything, at every turn, she’d realized. And he was one hell of a risk. The flirt, with words so honeyed it betrayed him. Mal knew better than to trust him, but she also recognized the importance of keeping him in the fold, for a ticking time bomb waiting to stab them in the back was the last thing the group needed. So, she went along with his flirtations, the overt courting, the flattery. All in hopes to keep him on her side.
Astarion wanted her blood, her body, the vulnerability that he’d been prying out of her with every sweet word. Leverage. How transactional. And yet, despite that knowledge, it wasn’t nothing. He made her feel something, a part that she’d hushed, pushed down, locked behind a gilded door in her mind. Mal wanted him, in some strange way she didn’t recognize. In a way that she could never have. She knew better than that.
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